Hamlet revels in serving little more than precisely sourced cured pig meat, seven kinds—“vertically sliced or hand-carved,” dished up naked on a plate. Oh, you can get some mixed warm olives (your server will ID every kind), a hammy sandwich, or a perfect cocktail shaken with a sole purpose: to make you crave more of the rosy, salty pork. Honestly? I expected to hate this place. The name alone inspires murderous thoughts and bad puns. And yet, though this be madness, there is method in it: giving the world’s best hams the spotlight, in a space tailor-made for wallowing, we’re powerless against Hamlet’s genuine charms. To swine own self be true, baby.